


We're The Ashes Left Behind

by ChibiDargon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst., Angst?, Author Listens To Too Much Classical Music, Cas Owns A Store, Cas is kinda a dick, Castiel Is A Little Bit Endverse, Characters Have A Nasty Habit Of Using Their Words As Weapons, Dean Winchester Needs A Life, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Grief/Mourning, History Teacher Castiel, Insomnia, Is this enough tags?, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kinda, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Omniscient Limited Third Person Narrative, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i don't know how to tag, more tags will probably be added later, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-02 09:03:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiDargon/pseuds/ChibiDargon
Summary: But there’s something about it. About the way the new sign shimmers in the low light, perhaps. Or the way the place looks cluttered in the homey sort of way, even from the outside, or the presence of a red Chevy Chevelle - 66’ by the looks of it - in the parking lot.Whatever it is, Dean pulls into the space right in front of the outlet, and sits in the Impala for a moment, before getting out and deciding that whatever he does now, at least he won’t be quite as alone as he has been since he watched his little brother get on a plane to California.





	1. No Quarter Under The Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters, nor the copious amounts of songs mentioned herein. 
> 
> Also, author is Canadian. I do my best, but I've never been to America, nor do I know anything whatsoever about United States geography - or Canadian geography, for that matter, history is really more my area - and as such apologize in advance for vagueness and confusion.
> 
> I freely admit to being awful with schedules, and I have a busy course load right now. That being said, if anyone likes this story, I'll try to update it. 
> 
> On another subject entirely, is there any chance that anyone might be willing to beta read for me? I can't edit my own work, and if I try it'll never get done, so if anyone can, leave a comment? I guess?
> 
> Thanks.

The sky is grey, and the clouds marring it not quite heavy enough to threaten rain. It’s a bleak, cool day - cooler than a summer day in Kansas has any goddamn right to be - and Dean Winchester almost laughs at how well the sky reflects his mood.

Even the purr of the Impala doesn’t make the clawing loneliness any less awful. He wants to drive to California, but Sam clearly doesn’t want to see any more of him, or he wouldn’t have moved away so damn soon. He wants to have a drink, but that’s what John Winchester would have done, and he was hardly a role model.

He wants to go to the shop, and bury himself in the engine of a poorly maintained car, like that might make the world make any more sense right now, might make the axis Sam shifted when he left align again, but Bobby is the one who sent him away when he saw the bags under Dean’s eyes from lack of sleep. 

So it doesn’t seem to matter what Dean Winchester wants, because events have conspired - in the way that he might call fate, or coincidence, if he believed in that kind of shit - to make him drive past a storefront in an old, mostly abandoned strip mall.

He would just keep going. Normally. But Dean knows this mall, had been here, just weeks ago, with Sammy to set off fireworks on the 4th of July somewhere without a field to set on fire. Somewhere that nobody ever goes, not even cops, because it’s been empty for decades.

The windows - usually dark, so dark that not even rebellious teens ever went here to prove their bravery - are lit for the unit that used to be marked as a bakery. He remembers that. Remembers the old wooden sign, filled with something that wasn’t quite gold, but gleamed in the inconsistent lighting of a nearby streetlamp.

Its sign now reads - in the dim light provided by the bland, cold, unforgiving sky - ‘Assorted Used Goods Outlet’. With a raised eyebrow, Dean considers the utter lack of creativity exercised by the owner of the place in that name.

But there’s something about it. About the way the new sign shimmers in the low light, perhaps. Or the way the place looks cluttered in the homey sort of way, even from the outside, or the presence of a red Chevy Chevelle - 66’ by the looks of it - in the parking lot.

Whatever it is, Dean pulls into the space right in front of the outlet, and sits in the Impala for a moment, before getting out and deciding that whatever he does now, at least he won’t be quite as alone as he has been since he watched his little brother get on a plane to California.

A bell jingles as he walks in, and Dean barely notices it, because he’s too busy gaping at a shelf full of cassette tapes.

He gives the rest of the place a cursory glance, of course. A counter with an old, beat up, cash register on it, several shelves of books, a piano and some other musical instruments resting in a corner.

Knicknacks overpopulating old tables, and some couches that look bizarrely out of place, one newer looking black leather, sleek looking thing - the sort you’re not sure is actually meant to be sat on - and a dark blue, older L couch. 

There’s more, but Dean is stuck on the cassette tapes.

There must be hundreds of them, thousands, even, all sorted into genres. In the middle of the shelf, there’s a cassette player with a set of headphones, and a piece of thick, probably expensive paper with a note written in honest-to-god calligraphy.

It reads ‘_You break it, you buy it, otherwise, go wild._’

He snorts, but is honestly too dazed to think much past the massive sections labeled _Classic Rock_.

Dean spends the rest of the night with his friends Plant and Page. Surprisingly, though not unwelcomely, nobody closes shop. Dean hears the occasional grumble from behind the counter, but the tapes drown it out.

It feels strangely companionable. He’s not too lonely, here, in the soft, warm lighting of this shop, surrounded by pieces of other people’s lives. Used stuff always has stories, and he wonders where the owner of this place got it all, in such a short time.

When he does leave - not buying anything, but planning to return soon enough - Dean realizes with a start that the first rays of dawn are shining, and when he glances at the counter, the guy who must do the overnights is sitting on a beanbag chair, reading a book, leaning against the front window by the counter. 

Dean doesn’t stop, doesn’t try to catch his eye, and is able to convince himself that he’s not wondering about him, wondering whether they’ve met before, or if any of the stuff is his, or if he likes Led Zep.

He convinces himself that artfully tousled dark hair isn’t what he’s glancing around for through unrolled car windows, and in shops, over the next few days. 

When he goes back, it’s some ungodly hour of the morning, and Dean has grown progressively more sure that the entire thing was a figment of his lonely mind, and there is no shelf of Classic Rock music, or piano or aggressively purple and neon bean bag chairs that clash something awful with the dark wooden floor.

So he goes back, in the hopes of proving to himself that he’s not losing his mind, though unsure whether he really wants to risk finding proof that he has, in fact, finally lost it.

He needn’t have worried. The store is still there, sitting in the night air like a port in a storm, golden light streaming over the asphalt of the parking lot when Dean pulls in for the second time.

He goes straight for the cassettes again, stopping only briefly to peer over the counter. There’s a chair - high backed and heavily cushioned - sitting empty behind it, except for the (rather alarming) presence of legs wrapped around each other, balanced on it like a footrest.

Apparently bean bag guy is laying on the floor tonight.

Dean snorts lightly before taking a seat in the reclining chair beside the cassette player, and restarting _Houses Of The Holy_.

He must fall asleep, at some point, because when he opens his eyes, the sun is shining brightly down on the lonely little parking lot, bouncing off every glittering particle in the asphalt, and making the Impala and the Chevelle shine like diamonds, sitting alone in front of a strip mall.

He doesn’t have work today, but he figures that Bean Bag probably has better things to do than keeping the store open for one, sleeping customer. 

That is, if Bean Bag is still here. He could have left. There might be someone who works the day shift, even if Dean hasn’t seen any evidence that anybody in town even knows this place exists.

So, he takes off the headphones, and hears someone playing piano, softly. So softly that Dean wonders for a moment if it isn’t a recording, but when he steps around the shelf, there’s Bean Bag, sitting on a bench in the nook with the instruments, long, dexterous fingers playing what Dean recognizes vaguely as Beethoven’s _Moonlight Sonata_ (shut up, Sam learned it for school).

He’s caught, entranced by the melancholy that resonates through the whole place, like the shop is a world considerate enough to stop and give you time to grieve, when the rest of the world won’t. And Dean doesn’t want to move, but he also doesn’t want to get caught by Bean Bag.

It feels like he’s watching something personal. Hearing someone spill their secrets all over the floor, because it’s not sharing the secret if the only other one in the room is asleep, is it?

Dean leaves in a jangle of bells as the first movement nears its close. 

It’s only when he gets to the Impala that Dean realizes he’s forgotten his keys, _shit_.

He deliberates a moment before going back in, and gets caught, yet again, in the notes pouring forth from the piano - he’s doing the third movement now, apparently decided to skip the second entirely -, brutal in their chaos. 

Dean’s heard the Moonlight Sonata before, but Bean Bag seems to live it, breath it. Not like he’s reading notes on a page, or trying to replicate something he’s heard. Like he’s making it his own, and using it to filter out discord and mayhem, much louder than before. 

His body moves with it, the notes steady and in pace, never growing faster - not really - but brimming with a passion that Dean feels like a physical thing in the air.

Bean Bag’s presence seems to envelop the shop, and Dean suddenly needs to get out, because he’s been standing here for five minutes, and where are his keys, and the movement is only a bit longer-

He books ass out of dodge before Bean Bag sees him.

Dean finds himself in the outlet often over the next few weeks. He’s never exactly sure _why_, but he does make his way through most of the classic rock section. Bean Bag is always there, but he never bugs Dean about not buying anything, and some other people come in occasionally and buy random stuff as December approaches.

He never actually talks to Bean Bag, but he does hear the guy talk to some people occasionally, and though he’s not out and out dickish, he’s rude. Prickly, for lack of a thesaurus within arm's reach. 

He’s especially short with people who ask about the history of the items, always responding with some variation on ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business’, in a voice like gravel being crushed underfoot, and getting more creative with his phrasing as more people demand providence of various items.

And, increasingly often, Bean Bag takes to the piano. He only does it when the store is empty - bar Dean - and plays complicated pieces, which Dean might recognize from a time before their white picket fence was burnt to the ground.

Dean stops being ashamed about listening in when he realizes that Bean Bag knows he’s there, seems to know _everything_ that happens in his shop.

For all that Dean has been half living in this place, he still doesn’t know Bean Bag’s real name, and it’s gotten to the point that he’s concerned he’ll call the guy that if they ever do talk.

But whatever.

He’s sure that Bean Bag knows his name, because he knows everybody’s names, though he never offers his own. The merchandise in the store has been… selectively thinned out as more people discover it.

Dean always keeps a watchful eye over the tapes. It seems, just like everything else, Bean Bag knows that there’s a claim on them. 

He proves such knowledge one day when a teenager with an unfortunate haircut, and far too much eyeshadow tries to buy a few Metallica tapes, and Dean walks into an interaction between the teen and Bean Bag.

“I’m sorry, but all of the tapes are on hold-”

“You said that last week, and nobody’s come to claim them since then!” she’s whining, teenage exasperation in full effect, with eye rolls sprinkled in for good measure.

Bean Bag - wearing a truly hideous purple sweater with ‘**Don’t** ask me about our specials’ in gold lettering across it - says, sounding put upon, “I didn’t realize that I had to report how I run my store to the youths of today, clearly an oversight on my part, I do hope to do better in the future, but if it’s no great trouble to you, would you kindly put the tapes back?”

Dean watches the kid’s baffled expression melt into something like grudging amusement, and he can’t help the chuckle that escapes his own throat, sitting down in his usual spot and playing the next AC/DC tape.

It isn’t until he’s been going there for half a year that he really notices that the store isn’t actually being restocked. Bean Bag is always there, day or night, and Dean’s working theory is that the guy is secretly some kind of supernatural entity that doesn’t require sleep.

But even though Bean Bag is always there, playing the piano, or tuning a violin, or reading the same books over and over again, he never restocks the shelves. 

Come to think of it, the only parts of the store not completely picked clean are Bean Bag’s music corner, and the Classic Rock cassette tapes. 

Hell, even the painfully neon bean bag chairs are gone, so Dean feels even more like an idiot for his nickname for the guy.

Sam calls, occasionally. He’s having a good time at school, and Dean’s glad, don’t get him wrong, but that doesn’t make the reminder of how alone he is hurt any less.

Bobby and the shop are the only really permanent fixtures in Dean’s life, other than the occasional sarcastic quip from Bean Bag, and the calming tunes of his favourite bands.

Dean’s apartment is empty and dark and cold. He knows that it doesn’t have to be, but he’d rather spend time at the outlet instead, in a comfortable chair, in companionable quiet with the asshole who runs the place, and filling all of Sam’s spaces with his own stuff isn’t something that Dean wants to do right now, either.

Bean Bag remains an enigma until September 18th, more than a year after Dean first discovered the outlet, when, for the first time, there’s a ‘closed’ sign hanging in the door.

It feels wrong. The lights in the place are off, or maybe just low, and he hears Bean Bag playing Moonlight Sonata again, the first movement. It’s one thing he rarely plays, usually juggling Handel and Mozart and Chopin, even Liszt when the customers piss him off more than usual.

But sometimes, when the night draws close, and Dean hasn’t heard colorful cursing from the guy, or smelled the occasion whiff of weed that makes him raise a brow, Bean Bag will play it. 

Never like this, though.

The way that the notes seem to waver - as if unsure how their tunes should ring out, or if they should at all - and how they seem to die, just as they reach Dean’s ears, like they can’t be heard even an inch behind him, it feels _wrong_.

Dean opens the door - not even locked, have some self preservation, Bean Bag - and the piano halts immediately, silence falling like a guillotine, cutting through the mutual silence they’ve held for over a year now.

“Did you not read the sign?” Bean Bag asks, rhetorically, and so full of venom that Dean actually stops his advance to absorb it.

“Thought I’d make sure you weren’t abusing the poor piano keys, and… not gonna lie, you sounded like you might need a friend.” he doesn’t have anything else to say, so he waits, leaning against the counter.

“So you do speak, Dean.” he’s trying to get a reaction, and Dean isn’t going to give it to him.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to say certain things, from time to time.” the reference slips out entirely by accident.

Bean Bag swivels to face him, a look of surprise on his face, “I actually get that reference, Shawshank, right?”

“Yeah.”

Bean Bag stands, and even though he’s a bit shorter than Dean, there’s something massive in his eyes, something terrifying in its intensity, making the blue so _deep_ that it tears at him, and he has a storm behind those eyes, like he’s fighting something, and he looks indescribably _sad_, and Dean wants to make him feel better, more than anything, but he can’t, can’t even make himself feel better-

Bean Bag holds out a hand, fingers that’s he’s seen dancing listlessly over the keyboard of a piano countless times held loosely to Dean in invitation, “I’m Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that Dean just... hanging around the shop, loitering and generally treating the place as a lounge doesn't make much sense, but there _is_ a reason why Cas doesn't ever bug him about it. I promise. 
> 
> If there are any errors please feel free to let me know! I try to edit myself, but that doesn't always work out, and I'm sure some mistakes made it through.


	2. These Scratches On Records All Come From Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Cas's past.

It’s a cold day when everything falls apart.

Later, Castiel will run through every sign that should have kept him in bed. Later, he will torture himself with all of the _what ifs_ and _might have beens_. With things that he can’t possibly know, in the moment. 

When the dust has settled, and Castiel has a moment to himself to just _think_, these are the thoughts that will haunt his every hour - not just his conscious ones, for the world is rarely so kind as to make sleep a refuge:_ He should have known the instant he stepped away from the comfort of his bright, multicolored apartment into the cool grey day outside. He could have stopped everything that went wrong with just one text message…_

But for now, a man of average height makes his way towards the closest bus stop. His dark hair ruffling in the wind, a sardonic smile on his face. The man is not remarkable in any way. Young - but not overly so. Dressed in a comfortable t-shirt and jeans, not bothering to brace his arms against the cold.

There is, perhaps, one spot of red paint not quite rubbed away on his left forearm, noticeable only because of its contrast to his outfit of blues and greys. On such a dim day, in the bland streets of a city, the neon paint almost glows.

As he stands idly, waiting for a bus that should have been there minutes ago, questions cross his mind. The slightly annoyed passing queries that entertain his thoughts regularly. What day is it? - Thursday, his mind helpfully supplies. He’s taken a day off school for this _event_.

Finally noticing the paint, the man rubs at the spot, though his hard eyes soften, slightly, at the thought of brushes standing propped up in a vase, bottles of oil, and canvas. Thoughts of what awaits him upon his return. 

After all, he justifies to himself, after a tedious day like today, a little rest and relaxation is absolutely in order. Trying to keep an apocalypse from breaking out when all of his brothers are together is somewhat like trying to force legislation passed; very nearly impossible, and perhaps more trouble than it’s worth. He sighs, internally cursing himself for the comparison.

If he even so much as _mentions_ politics to Lucifer…

The bus finally pulls up in front of the corner, gleaming metal a startling shade of green- landscapes and the grassy growth near riverbanks come to mind.

Even the bus driver looks apathetic under artificial lights, which throw the wrinkles on her tired face into harsh relief. She doesn’t ask to see his bus pass, or for fare, and somehow, the man is sure that he could get away with simply walking past, but…

He pulls a worn, black leather wallet out of his back pocket. Sliding his pass out, he scans it on the new ‘tap’ apparatus. 

Taking a seat, he makes to put the card away, but intelligent blue eyes catch on something. His own picture stares up at him, unaffected, from his driver’s license. The print, as crisp as the day the card was issued, reads ‘Castiel Novak’. Date of birth, 9/18/1986.

He heaves a sigh, eyes closing. His lids act the theater screen, playing the memory. He’d tried to pass himself off as Jimmy in the photographs, but there was always something different about him.

Castiel has never been able to mimic Jimmy as well as he wishes. No, they’re too different, for all they share the same likeness.

Jimmy; the nice twin, the good twin. Always the friendly one. The successful one.

That suits Castiel just fine. Being the prickly one, with the sharp eyes and sharper words, has always worked well to keep people from coming too close. Castiel is content to be the twin talked about in whispers- the _rude_ one, the _smart_ one, the shadow.

There’s considerably less scrutiny on the shadow than on the one who casts it

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the History teacher prepares himself for one of the few events that actually drag the remnants of the Novak family together.

His and Jimmy’s birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Castiel's past is something which I get to later in more detail, I promise. However, he's got a lot of stuff to work through, and I can't in good conscience toss in a mountain of exposition. Everything in moderation, yeah?
> 
> Alse, if there are errors, feel free to let me know, I usually try to edit myself, but-   
I don't catch everything.


End file.
